


The Dead Trenches

by wargoddess



Series: The OTHER Other Hawke [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Carver is a playa, F/M, Fanon, Frottage, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Fenris makes up his mind in "The Deeper Roads," Carver does not sit around waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Trenches

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Other Hawke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/411741) by [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham). 



> This is a companion fic to "The Deeper Roads" -- basically the same story over again, from Carver's PoV this time. Go read that first, if you haven't. Actually scratch that; go read Tanukiham's "The Other Hawke" series first, *then* come back to these. If you wanna be hard-headed and just read these, tho', the canon divergence here is that Fenris and Carver started a friendship prior to the Deep Roads quest, which turned sexual on the night before.

     Carver awakens from visions of blood and corruption to know himself dead. 

     Oh, his body will take a few decades to realize it.  But although the creeping pain and whispers seem to have passed, and although his skin looks normal again, he can feel the taint still in him.  Lurking.  Working.  The taste of the Joining elixir is like rot on the back of his tongue.  It's a warning that the life he seems to have regained is just a loaner.  It's not his.  And one day, sooner or later, it will be repossessed.

     There are many things he could regret in that moment, as he staggers to his feet.  Giving his life to the darkspawn, when they have already taken his king and his birthhome and his sister.  His mother will mourn so.  Leaving his brother behind -- because however capable and infuriating Garrett might be, no one should have to face the world alone. 

     But it is telling, and pathetic, that the thing which makes Carver ache most is the thought of never seeing Fenris again.

     "Welcome to the Grey Wardens," says Stroud, embracing him.

#

It's not like the Ferelden army.  There's only a couple dozen of them, for one.  And the lot have no discipline to speak of, no organization or tactics beyond _whatever works_.  The older Wardens tell him it's more structured in Weisshaupt, where they have a real chain of command and where the locals' memories are not as short.

     In Ansburg it's different.  Half the Wardens in the Free Marches have been conscripted in the past three years, just since word of the Fifth Blight began to spread.  The other half have been Wardens for years -- aimlessly, relentlessly, many of them never expecting their skills to be actually called upon for the purpose they're supposed to serve.  That lot are worse than the conscripts, since most of them resent their sudden responsibility.  Altogether it's a motley collection of thieves and old soldiers and pirates and failures, a good number of whom are also drunks. 

     But everything changes when they go into the Deep Roads, or face darkspawn bands on the surface.  Then the drunks reveal themselves as the best warriors Carver's ever seen; the biggest whiners fall upon the enemy like the wrath of the Maker.  They are blood on the wing, even without griffons, and when Carver raises his sword alongside them, it feels amazing.  He feels _important_.  Wanted, needed, special.

     It is a feeling he has experienced only once before.  And in the shadows of ancient dwarven thaigs or blighted forests, as he lies down to rest with no assurance that he will live to see morning, he tries not to remember the feel of deft thumbs tracing the centerline of his chest, a warm palm wrapping around his cock, strong fingers vanguarding the way into his body.  When he fails and remembers these things anyway, he tries not to remember the morning after, and the words that left deeper wounds in him than anything the darkspawn could ever carve.  But he usually fails at that, too.

     It's over.  It's done.  That life is gone.

     Eventually, after enough sleepless nights, he starts to believe it.

#

     It happens about six months after his Joining.  Warden life is all hurry up and wait; in between forays, there isn't much to do.  They train and complain and play cards and lie around the Ansburg Keep a lot.  The Keep is a nice enough place to lie around.  Now that the Fifth Blight has reminded everyone that Wardens are actually important, the rulers of Ansburg have gifted them with several buildings and a practice ground and a warded salle for the mages' use.  They've got enough of a budget to hire a small staff, so they don't have to wash their own smalls or cook their own meals.  But Carver just wants to kill darkspawn, and it frustrates him that they don't do it more often.

     And then one boring evening, it happens.  The bloke is a mage, and since Carver's one of the few people in the city who doesn't cringe away from mages on sight, he's been lurking about near Carver for awhile.  He wears one of those stupid robes the Circles make them wear, which makes him look like a tosser, but his smile is shy and the bones under his pale skin are fine and sharp.  They've been talking about nothing for weeks, but then the fellow suggests they head back to his room to talk in private, and Carver figures that is exactly how it sounds. 

     It's not bad.  He's seen the other Wardens do this.  They don't care about fraternization; quite the contrary.  They fuck like nugs, or like people who don't have to worry about diseases or pregnancy or long commitments and who've got nothing better to do.  Carver's sensed some of them sizing him up, considering their approaches.  He didn't think this one -- Levyn's his name -- would be the first, but there it is.  Levyn's skinny and even paler under the robe, like unbaked dough or unfinished sculpture, and Carver can't bring himself to fuck the man even though he asks for it.  He's afraid Levyn might _break_.  So they suck each other's dicks and rub up against each other until things take their course.  It's all right.

     "Is it because I'm a mage?" Levyn asks afterward, and he's so forlorn that Carver feels bad.

     "No," he replies.  "It was fine."  Then he flinches because oh, he _knows_ how much that one hurts.  And yeah, the look on Levyn's face has a familiar kicked-in-the-gut feel.  He grimaces and tries to repair the damage.  "It's not you.  I just... there was... someone.  Before."  Oh, fuck.  Why'd he say that?  He hadn't meant to.

     But a look of relief crosses Levyn's face at once.  "Oh," he says.  "That's all right.  Everybody's left someone behind, here."

     And that intrigues Carver enough that he pulls his head out of his own arse for awhile, and asks Levyn who his left-behind is.  And Levyn tells him all about the Circle, which is just as awful as Carver always suspected it was although not quite as bad as the reeking pit that is Kirkwall's Gallows.  He tells Carver about his half-arsed escape attempt, and a fellow mage who betrayed him, and the Chantry lay sister who broke his heart.  And then there's something about him training an arl's apostate son, and having to change his name in order to hide until he could reach the Wardens and volunteer.  It's all very very sordid and a little boring. 

     But then Levyn hunches a little and says, "She was... she was the first person I _wanted_ to touch.  I mean, the Templars..."  He hunches more, which Carver hadn't thought was possible.  "They weren't so bad.  I mean, they were going to make me Tranquil, but I hoped -- if, if I did them enough f-favors --  They didn't try to _hurt_ me or anything.  They weren't _animals_ about it."  He takes a deep breath.  "But I _wanted_ her and... I kept pushing her away.  It wasn't her fault, she wasn't anything like _them_ , but I just couldn't take it, sometimes.  She understood, and she loved me back anyway, until... the end."

     It's so much babbling, Carver's not really sure what he's talking about at first.  And then all at once he remembers something Isabela said, about slavery and how it wasn't always a matter of overpowering people with strength, and he remembers the way Fenris flinched at the touch of his hands.

     He touches Levyn's back, and Levyn flinches a little, just the same way. 

     Carver isn't sure what to do, so he keeps his hand on Levyn until he relaxes.  Then because he seems to really need it, Carver pulls him back down and touches him more, and when Levyn makes the right sorts of sounds Carver turns him onto his belly and rides him as gently and carefully as he can.  Turns out Levyn's stronger than he looks.

     It doesn't mean anything.  It's just comfort.  But it helps, for both of them.

#

     After that, like Levyn's posted some kind of "grand opening" sign, others come knocking.  No one gets possessive or pushy.  That's not how things work in the Wardens.  Life's too short to waste on pointless attachments.  And like Levyn, all of them push away anything that comes too close to a tender spot.

     Carver develops something of a reputation.  Partly it's just that he's the youngest of the Warden men; a few of the women are hoping for children -- Maker knows why given what they do, but he doesn't mind helping them try.  Partly it's that he's relatively unobjectionable: he bathes regularly, wipes his teeth in the mornings, shaves, darns his socks.  They can thank his mother for that.  Partly it's that he doesn't turn up his nose at men or elves or mages -- though he balks when the first dwarf propositions him, because the man looks too much like Varric and that would just be _wrong_.  The fellow laughs when Carver explains; no hard feelings.  One of the other dwarves, a quick-fingered muscular fellow by the name of Faren, gives him the eye and a grin.  And Carver thinks... maybe.

     A big part of it is the fact that when Carver sleeps alone, he thinks of things that might have been, so he tries not to sleep alone often.

     He develops a reputation in battle, too, and Stroud calls on him for more and more missions, because Carver _knows_ what darkspawn are capable of in a way that some of the others still don't get.  He sees Ostagar in every enemy force.  He sees Lothering in every town or Dalish caravan or farm they threaten.  He sees his sister's crumpled body whenever an ogre appears -- so Stroud shows him a few tricks and soon he's bringing those fuckers _down_ all by himself, screaming Bethany's name as he stabs them in the face.  It's not a Blight, fine, but that doesn't mean the world doesn't still need saving.  He looks into the faces of people who would be dead if not for him, sees their gratitude and their anger and their tears, and knows himself to be necessary, at last.  He knows himself to be part of something that truly matters.

     Sometimes Stroud lets him lead squadrons of his own on forays.  Sometimes he spars against the elves, which is always a challenge because they're so nimble and _fast_.  (He jokes that they're "frolicking" and they laugh and try to kick his arse.)  Sometimes Carver shows the mages new tricks, things he's seen his brother do, which apparently the Circle never allows. 

     This prompts him at last, and he writes to Garrett and his mother even though most of the Wardens say it's better to just cut off all ties.  Easier on the heart.  And they're right.  It hurts, a lot, when Mother and Garrett write back, telling him to be good as if he's still _twelve_ , and talking about manors and titles and things that seem so meaningless and small to him, now.

     Still.  The night after he gets Garrett's letter he goes prowling, and approaches one of the women he's avoided because she usually looks at him like he's made of excrement.  Then again, she looks at everyone that way, but he gets it 'cause she's Dalish and he's met enough of those to understand the fear that lurks under their hostility.  He knows _he's_ what they fear, the rampaging short-lived human fucking their race out of existence, so he's nervous as he cautiously flirts with her.  It's so hard to talk when he really wants to say something.  But eventually, he realizes she's only annoyed that he didn't approach her before "that puling ignoramus Levyn".  She comes to his quarters around midnight.

     Carver doesn't know why he wanted her so much.  He just... Maker, maybe it's wrong to think this way, but he really needed an elf for awhile.  Something about them, their long hands or their slim hips or the smell of them, that scent he associates with aching desire and unbearable satisfaction and soul-grinding pain, makes him crave more than just a random tumble.  She's hungry too, because it's been a long time for her, and they get a little wild.  She bleeds him; in the morning he wakes up stuck to the sheets.  But then she heals him -- turns out she was a Keeper, huh -- and they go at it again, and again, throughout the whole next day.

     "So, what elf broke your heart?" she asks at last, in between bouts.  He doesn't know how she knew, but she shrugs and says, "A human broke mine," and that makes it all right.

     They talk.  He tells her everything.  She tells him -- well, he doesn't know if it's everything, but it's stuff she's never told anyone else, and he feels honored by her confidence.  Her sister's dead, too.  And because they talk so honestly, they don't have sex again, not ever after that night, because that's how Wardens stay sane.  It's okay, though.  He's glad to have a friend again.

     One day Stroud tells them that something big is happening in Orlais, they've got to travel to Kirkwall to take ship, something about rogue Wardens and a hidden thaig.  Carver's not happy about returning to Kirkwall even just to pass through, but he understands that the Orlesian Wardens wouldn't call for outside help -- and Stroud wouldn't have answered that call, because for some reason Stroud hates Orlais -- without good reason.  So Carver goes, and because he feels like everyone's looking at him he says nothing about trying to visit his mother or his brother even though he really kind of wants to.  And he doesn't think about visiting any of the other people he knows in town, because he _doesn't_ want to see them.  Any of them.

     Not even --

     Any of them.

     But what the _Void_ , the Qunari have lost their horned _minds_ , or maybe Kirkwall has driven them nuts the way it eventually does everybody, because suddenly Carver and the rest are fighting for their lives in the reeking soot-flecked streets.  So of course they run into Garrett, because wherever there's chaos there's his brother, and... and it's good to see him.  He's obviously doing okay, wearing spiffy armor and fine boots, and he's been eating well; Carver wants to tease him about not needing the beard to hide his scrawny neck anymore.  But he doesn't.  Anyway Garrett's just _staring_ at him, like he can't believe what he's seeing, and Carver knows himself greatly changed because there's something kind of awed and respectful in the way Garrett talks to him now, and that's... yeah.  That's kind of nice.

     He makes sure to say farewell.  Wardens always need to do that.

     Afterward he tells Stroud to cut through Gamlen's old neighborhood because it's the quickest route to the docks.  Of _course_ a fuckton of Qunari ambush them there.  It's a hard fight, almost as hard as facing a bunch of revenants or emissaries.  Carver's deep in it, lost in the song of his own blade and the roar of his tainted blood, when something breaks his rhythm.  A flicker at the corner of his eye.  It yanks him out of the battle fugue and throws him back in time and nearly gets him killed -- but yeah, it's him, it's _Fenris_ , blurring across the battlefield and sticking the biggest Qunari through the gut like it's nothing.  Then there's light and Carver remembers there's a saarebas on the field, how the Void did he _forget_ that, what the fuck is _wrong_ with him, and because he was stupid he goes down.

     He's confused when he comes around.  Gamlen's house, his old bunk.  Maker, was it all some kind of dream?  But Fenris has never been here, in this room with him, and Fenris has never been _awkward_ with him, and Carver has never pitied Fenris for his now-obvious awkwardness, so he supposes he's not dreaming after all.

     The whole conversation's a mess.  Fenris actually brings up That Night.  Carver tries to explain that he's forgiven Fenris, that he's moved on, but he just sounds pissed off even to his own ears.  But then Fenris stops talking and touches him, and Carver stops being angry and _wants_ him, and... shit.  Shit.  He'd thought he was past this.  He'd thought he'd purged this, this _need_ , in the arms of so many others.  But then Fenris kisses him, and the want boils over like an unwatched pot, and suddenly they're on each other like it's the end of everything.  It feels so good.  Better than anything else he's had since, and that doesn't make any sense because he's been with some amazing bedmates.  Why does it feel so sodding _good_?  Like Fenris is cool sweet water and he's dying of thirst.  He can't get enough.  There's an explosion somewhere in the city when he comes; he shakes and the whole building shakes with him.  Right, even the fucking Maker's in on it.

     It's so hard to leave, afterward.  He actually... wavers.  The Wardens are everything to him now, but.  He's glad Fenris doesn't make it harder, doesn't ask for what he can't give. Fenris is... Fenris is right to tell him to...

     _Why don't I stay?_

     No.  He has a duty.  Fenris is right to tell him to go.

     _Why doesn't he come with me?_

     Carver's right not to ask.  The Wardens' oath is a burden.  No Warden inflicts this on another unless there's no better option.

     _Why is he_ letting _me go?_

     That's a question only Fenris can answer, and Fenris says nothing.

     Carver walks away and it feels like it did the last time.  The morning of the mistake.  He walks away and he wants a drink and he's so twisted-up inside that he barely notices that the Qunari's little war has ended, barely thinks of his steps as he makes his way to the docks and catches up with Stroud and the rest.  He goes through the motions of saving the world; it's habit now, no need to think.  They go back to Ansburg, and it's only when he gets back to his room and flings himself down on the bed that he realizes he forgot to say goodbye.

#

     Stroud's the one who pulls him out of it.  Carver's been drinking too much -- hanging with the damned dwarves, he should really know better -- and he hasn't had sex in weeks.  Apparently everybody's talking about it, because Grey Wardens are worse than a weaving-circle when it comes to stupid shit like that.  Velanna tries to talk to him and he curses her until she leaves; he doesn't want to look at her ears or smell that elfy thing they've all got about them.  So it's Stroud.

     Stroud's the only Orlesian Carver thinks of as a real man.  He's big and burly and cockhanded from years of swordsmanship; sparring with him is a hard and brutal dance that always leaves Carver exhausted and exhilarated.  And even though Carver can't quite forgive the moustache, at least Stroud doesn't look at everyone as if they're beneath him.  He's staring at that stupid moustache, not really listening while Stroud lectures him on how all Wardens go through a period of abject despair, when it occurs to him that he never hears about Stroud fucking anybody.  He never sees anybody proposition Stroud, either.  What's with that?

     So he gets up while Stroud is still talking, and he goes over, and he leans in and is about to kiss him when Stroud sort of jerks and puts a hand on his chest.  There's a moment when Carver wonders if Stroud will say no.

     Then Stroud says, "No kissing," and pushes him back onto the bed.

     Most people figure Carver's the one who wants to be on top.  Big guy, big sword; they look at him and think they know him.  He doesn't care, really.  He does whatever they seem to want.  Long as everybody's happy come morning, what does it matter?  But when Stroud shoves him onto his face and eases the world's biggest cock into his arse and then leans over Carver's back to pound it in, Carver shudders and remembers that yeah, he likes this.  He _really_ likes it.  It felt good the last time, too --

     -- and then he's back there, it's That Night again, and Stroud doesn't smell or sound like Fenris but he feels the same inside, he's got the same hard grip on Carver's hips, so Carver closes his eyes and groans into the pillow and it's sodding perfect. 

     And just like last time his mind sort of dies and his mouth sort of runs and when it's done, while he lies there in a stupor and lets Stroud mop him up, Stroud says, "Who is Fenris?"

     Fucking ambushing Orlesians.

     "Nobody who matters," Carver mumbles, and for almost a whole minute he manages to believe it.

     Stroud pushes him over onto his back and climbs into the bed beside him, propping himself on one arm and running a hand idly over Carver's body.  There's something proprietary about this, but Carver doesn't really mind.  He's Stroud's man whether Stroud fucks him or not; Stroud knows that.  "That strange elf you met in Kirkwall?  He seemed to know you."

     "It doesn't matter."

     Stroud lifts a bushy eyebrow, then his expression turns thoughtful.  "He was a superb fighter.  And clearly resourceful, given how quickly you were able to catch up with us despite your injuries..."

     All at once Carver's angry.  _Incandescent_ with fury.  He sits up to glare at Stroud.  "No."

     "I am merely speculating, Carver -- "

     "No!  You try to conscript him and I'll -- "  _fucking kill you_ , but he can't say that to his commander, he won't, because Stroud's saved his life and he _likes_ him and he really is Stroud's man.  But he cannot help but think of the Warden conscripts he's seen, the ones who die in the Joining clutching at their throats and with their eyes full of horror, and when he visualizes Fenris drinking from that poisoned cup everything in him screams at the very thought.  He says instead, " -- I'll leave.  I'll fucking _desert_.  Don't you _touch_ him."

     Stroud lies back, relaxed, his gaze knowing.  "No one who matters.  I see."

     Carver sits up and puts his back to Stroud.  He's not sulking.  He's trying to rein in his temper.  And Stroud, who knows him well enough to know when to shut up, lets him cool down.  Then he says, "I have no intention of conscripting him.  There is no Blight, our ranks are at an acceptable strength.  I merely wanted to understand, and now I do."  He sighs a little.  "It is what I tried to explain when your brother brought you to me, Carver, that day in the Deep Roads.  Becoming a Warden does not save your life.  It ends it.  You are, in essence, already dead.  Now, however, you must spend thirty years or so _realizing_ it."

     That's... the worst thing Carver's ever heard.  And even though it's what he feels, what he _knows_ , what he's understood since he first felt the taint creeping through his veins, it hurts to hear the words spoken aloud.  He turns to look at Stroud -- and that's when he sees the emptiness in the other man's gaze.  It's only for a moment.  Then Stroud's eyes flick to meet his, and he's back.  But Carver knows.

     "Is it... it's not... the Calling?"  He doesn't want to know.

     "Not yet."  Stroud smiles thinly.  "Not for another year or three.  But I hear something, now and again."

     There's nothing Carver can say.  He can't imagine the Ansburg Warden Keep without Stroud, its backbone.  But then, Stroud's right:  he's dead already.  Neither of them are really here.

     Then Stroud pulls him back down, spoons up with him, and starts to touch him with a purpose.  Carver's only half-hard, his mind still full of death, when Stroud reaches for the oil and nudges his leg up and _fuck_ he's huge.  And ungentle, and apparently insatiable.  No wonder nobody invites him to bed.  Carver's still gritting his teeth when Stroud grips his shoulders and braces them so there's nowhere for Carver to go.  "Drown out the song for me," he breathes hot in Carver's ear, and then he makes Carver do exactly that for the rest of the night.

#

     Carver can't get out of bed the next morning.  He's exhausted and hoarse and he can't _walk_ , damn it, and how is it that Stroud hops up perky as you please, not tired at all?  He's _old_.  That's not supposed to _happen_.  He's never sleeping with this bastard again.

     Stroud sighs and pats him on the shoulder and chides him gently:  "Ah, you Fereldans never practice the _important_ skills.  Come and see me tomorrow.  I'm making you my second in command."  And Carver's so sore and annoyed (and sated, that too, oh he is well-fucked indeed, but he doesn't want to admit it because really, _Orlesians_ ) that he doesn't even register the words until Stroud's gone.

#

     As Warden Lieutenant -- Carver likes the sound of that, all important-like, _Warden Lieutenant_ , even though the others just sort of snort and keep calling him "Carver" or "Fereldan" or "You" -- things get busier.  Stroud takes him out for every mission now, and makes him get involved in the administration of the Keep, which mostly consists of keeping the larders supplied and paying the cleaning and cookstaff and staying out of the local politics.  Staying out of Weisshaupt politics too, though that's harder.

     There's ugly parts of it.  He learns to make the Joining elixir.  He gives it to a few people.  He watches some of those people die by his hand, and the rest wake up dying.  He also sees the look which comes over the older Wardens when that dying is complete, and he forces himself to stand at attention while they walk into the Deep Roads and ask the dwarves to bar the gates behind them.

     But that's how it goes.  It's a sacred fucking duty, mostly ugly, a little sweet.  He's proud to be part of it.

     And the busier he is, the more he fills his hours and his thoughts with work, the less he thinks of things that cannot be.

#

     Carver doesn't realize at first that the dwarf wanker who's slipped into the room is trying to kill him.  Weird shit's been happening in Orzammar for the last few years, there's been more newmade surfacers showing up at the keep gates to volunteer, and the Wardens have some recent recruits that Carver doesn't recognize on sight.  Then he sees the haze over the man's irises and feels that _itch_ of wrongness that makes him think _darkspawn_ and it's pure instinct that makes him draw his sword and lop the fool's head off.

     Levyn works some magic with the dwarf's blood -- Carver will never get over that, the harmless-looking ones being blood mages, but he can grit his teeth and hold his tongue -- that allows Carver to track the assassin to the source.  Stroud's not happy about letting him go alone, but Carver tells him it's not a Warden mission, even though it turns out to be very much so.

     But _his brother_ is there, with a similar tale of half-blighted assassins, and Carver's in complete agreement that it's time to put an end to this business, whatever it is.  It's nice fighting alongside them again.  His brother's gotten stronger, and Isabela's gotten faster, and Fenris --

     Yeah.  Fenris.  Who looks at him so solemnly, and seems so distant.  Okay.  Carver can do distant.  Carver can do all of this, it's no different from any other Deep Roads foray, just a bit more personal.  So he decides to do things the way Wardens do, and in the evenings when they camp he thinks about Isabela, remembering how kind she was to him and thinking maybe now he knows enough to impress her.  She grins when she sees him looking -- but shakes her head minutely.  Her eyes flick toward Fenris.

     He coughs to cover his own head-shake.  Garrett asks if he's catching a cold, and Carver rolls his eyes.

     Isabela rolls her eyes back, and looks at Fenris again.  Fenris is sharpening his sword, oblivious.

     Fine.  Fuck it.

     So Fenris gets up to go to the latrine, and Carver goes with him.  Just two guys going to whiz together; and they say women always pee in packs.  No big deal.  Except Carver can _feel_ Fenris there, like something hot radiating against his side, like banked coals, and -- Maker.  Carver's so cold.  It's always so cold, down here in the dark.

     So once he's done and tucked away he reaches out, and lets the backs of his fingers brush against Fenris' cheek.  And when Fenris flinches -- but doesn't flinch _away_ \-- he steps a little closer, trailing his fingers down Fenris' arm to take his hand.  And when that doesn't earn him a fist through the chest, Carver steps closer still, and presses his palm against Fenris' crotch.  He's not hard, but that starts to change pretty fast.  Then Fenris nuzzles his mouth, and Carver opens up for him, and --

     It's rough and quick and dirty, up against a gritty dry-rotted wall hanging.  Carver can smell himself after days unwashed.  Fenris smells the same as ever, and tastes of bitter and sour tea.  He really wants Fenris inside him, Maker he _aches_ for that, but they don't have any oil and he doesn't think he can persuade Fenris to do him dry.  They aren't persuading each other of anything, because they don't talk, not once while they're rutting into each other's hands and mouths and coming with soft groans onto each other's boots.  No need to talk when a good fuck's all you want.  That's the Warden way, and if that's all he's got, then he'll take it.

     (It still feels so much better.  Why?  Is it the lyrium?  He almost goes blind when he comes.  Fenris' fingertip curls just under the head of him at just the right instant and the world goes white.  How does Fenris _do_ that?) 

     He doesn't understand it, but he wants more.

     So they go at it again, and again, every night in camp.  It's always the same:  no words, just tentative touching turning into raw demand, just breath and heat and shaking and, and ohfuck, _oh dear sweet Andraste_ he's losing his mind with it, it's better than drinking, better than Stroud fucking him half to death, better than Velanna's nails and teeth, better than Levyn shyly showing him the infamous Fereldan Circle Lightning Trick.  He's addicted.  Ad-dick-ted.  He whispers this to Isabela once, one morning after, and she wakes up Garrett and Fenris and probably half the darkspawn horde sniggering like a little girl. 

     Garrett, predictably, is an ass about it.  Fenris just watches him, hungry, addicted too.

     Of course Carver cocks it all up, rambling while delirious and drunk after getting his arm broken.  He knows he shouldn't say anything at all, they have a good thing going, but no, he just has to say what he really feels, like that's ever worked out well for him before.  But... well... it's true, and he really wants Fenris to know.  Because... because he might never be able to say it again, and dying with regrets would be the worst thing in the world.  Wouldn't it?  And he regrets a lot of things. 

     So he says it.  _I'm yours._

     And Fenris says back, _I am yours_.  Which... whoa.  In his dreams Carver's heard words like that.  In his dreams -- the ones that aren't taint-addled nightmares -- he sees himself still in Kirkwall, still in Fenris' soft bed in his dilapidated house, and they are curled together warm and safe.  There's nothing more to it, nothing big.  He doesn't dream himself Knight Commander or anything.  They're just in love and everyone knows it, and nothing stops them from being together.

     So for a little, blissful while, he believes those words, because he really really wants to.

     Then Fenris starts avoiding him.  No more sex.  They stop talking, in part because Carver can't think of anything to say, any way to _fix_ whatever's gone wrong.  And really, what's there to fix?  He can't stay in Kirkwall.  Fenris won't come to Ansburg.  And Fenris can't seem to think of anything to say, either.  Maybe he's ashamed of having said anything in the first place.  Maybe to him, this was just another mistake.

     So it gets more and more broken between them, until it hurts even to _look_ at him and Carver wants to start _screaming_ in lieu of words.  Finally the silence is all they have.

     At the end of it Fenris walks away.  Again.

#

     His brother writes to him, a few weeks later.  Amid all the rambling and stuff Carver doesn't care about (like Anders), he sees two sentences that matter:  _Mother is well and misses you_ , and further down, _Are you all right?_

     He writes four pages back, his hand shaking so much that the words are unintelligible, and even though he crosses out the lines like _I am beginning to realize I'm dead_ , he knows he can't send it.  He burns it instead and goes to Stroud, who takes one look at his face and pulls him into his quarters.  Carver's empty; he hopes Stroud will fill him.  But Stroud frowns and shakes his head and pulls him into bed and just holds him, murmuring something soothing in his own language while Carver shakes and aches and does not, does _not_ cry.

     Fucking Orlesians.

     He writes back to Garrett:  _I'm fine_.

#

     Stroud doesn't take him on the next few missions.  Carver knows why.

#

     But he gets better.  Sacred fucking duties wait for no man.  The Wardens are the closest thing he's got to a family, and they all do things to help him through.  Somehow Faren gets his hands on a bottle of aquae lucidius, sodding _wyvern venom liquor_ , and Carver spends three days seeing purple dragons before he sobers up completely.  (Stroud just sighs and says, "I told you not to drink it.")  Velanna sneaks into his quarters and plants a fucking _tree_ in the corner, making it grow with magic so that it's six feet tall by the time he comes back and sees it.  It's going to destroy the foundation with its roots.  He needs to pull it up before it gets any worse.  He doesn't.

     Anyway, there's death to deal and a world to save, and Stroud's hearing the music more often these days.  Carver knows he has to be ready.  He works harder, and tries to be worthy of his griffon crest.

     He's leading a mission out on the heights of Ansburg one day, finishing off a pack of undead that he thinks might indicate an emissary lurking nearby, when Levyn touches his shoulder and points toward the western horizon.  There's a bright, unnatural red light there over the hills, sending off streaks in every direction; one of them even zooms over Ansburg.  It's some kind of debris, and it's on fire.

     Kirkwall's in that direction.

     He's not thinking about Garrett or the others, though, when he quietly gives Levyn the order to use blood magic to find out what the fuck that was.  He hates giving orders like that, he _knows_ what a risk it is to Levyn, but the last time he saw a light on the horizon like that was at Ostagar, and there's no law saying there _can't_ be two Blights within a human lifetime.  That would be just his luck, really. 

     So Levyn summons a sloth demon right in front of them, and it's really kind of amazing how such a meek man turns into a something like a master barrister, barking commands and deftly avoiding the creature's verbal traps and finally getting it to tell them the truth in exchange for nothing more than a few memories.  Carver knows Levyn's got plenty he doesn't mind losing, so that's okay.

     The demon says, "Another of my kind has destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall."  When Levyn presses, the demon sighs and explains, "It calls itself Justice.  Tiresome creature, really," and then it adds, while Carver is standing rigid and thinking _my brother's lover destroyed the Chantry_ , "The Templars are killing every mage in the city now, in retaliation."

     Levyn dismisses the demon, and they all stand there for a moment.  Faren shakes his head and sighs, sheathing his twinblades.  Velanna folds her arms and glares at him.  "Well?"

     Carver starts.  "What?"

     "Your brother's a mage, isn't he?  He and your mother are in that city, aren't they?"

     He sets his jaw against the bitter taste in his mouth.  Garrett can take care of himself.  Garrett can... but oh, Maker, even Garrett can't fight the whole fucking Gallows.  But he forces himself to say,  "Wardens have no family.  We all know what it means to -- "

     And then he curses and ducks, because Velanna throws a sodding _knife_ at him.  She can't have been aiming it or he'd be dead, but he feels the wind of the dagger's passing and _Andraste's flaming ass_ he has no idea how elves manage to reproduce if their women are all crazy.  Though he supposes the men are crazy too.

     "They're your clan," she snaps.  And when Carver opens his mouth to protest, Faren glares him silent.  Faren used to be muscle for the Orzammar Carta; it's a sodding evil glare.  Even Levyn sighs and nods agreement with them, though Carver suspects this is only because he can't duck as quickly as Carver and Velanna doesn't like him already.

     "Go on," Faren says then, more gently.  "We'll take care of things here."

     And Carver's last resistance crumbles. 

     Velanna knows a spell, some kind of elven Keeper thing, that allows them to travel through the ground in seconds.  It's terrifying; Carver thinks he's not yet ready to be buried, and he thinks about screaming.  But they rise from the ground perfectly intact, smelling of dirt but otherwise clean, facing the great arching gates of Kirkwall's eastern entryway.  Smoke curls up from several points within the city.  There are no guards in place where they should be, although dozens of people are coming out of the open gates in a steady stream, some fine and others bloodied and stare-eyed.

     Then Velanna's gone, back to Ansburg before the magic dissippates, leaving Carver alone.  He doesn't think twice, drawing his sword and heading into the burning city.

     He finds Garrett by following the path of chaos as usual.  They proceed to the Gallows, where the Knight Commander has turned into a glowing, magic-infected, ranting nightmare.  They fight her, and amid the horror Carver has no time to think about the fact that Fenris is fighting beside him, lunging in between his feints, watching his back.  They're all looking out for each other, because that's the only way to survive this madness.  When it's done and the Templars have withdrawn to let them flee, Carver falls in at Garrett's side, and they all leave the city together.

     They go to Sundermount to regroup.  Mother should be all right in the city, Carver decides; she's a wealthy noblewoman again, and she knows how to play the game better than either of her children or Gamlen.  Garrett's a wreck.  He had to kill Anders, and while he's not weeping or rending his garments, Carver knows that look on his face.  Garrett looks like a man who is beginning to realize he's dead.

     And while Carver is trying to decide what to do about it, whether he dares offer his condolences when he and Garrett are anything but friends and a part of him is thinking _I told you that one was a wanker_ , Fenris comes up the hill to find him.

     Carver's ready.  Fenris is just another Kirkwaller that he knows.  There's nothing between them.  The pull that he feels as Fenris comes closer; the hunger to turn his head and drink in the sight of all that tanned skin and those huge green eyes -- these things do not exist.  He can take it, whatever Fenris says, and it won't bother him.

     Fenris says he wants to come to Ansburg.

     He says... that he wants to fight at Carver's side.

     He says --

     No.  He's lying.  It doesn't sodding matter what he's saying.  Carver sets his jaw and faces him and thinks, _You son of a demon, I won't let you hurt me again_.  Even if Fenris probably never meant to do that.  Fuck Fenris to the Void.  He can't take this anymore.

     But Fenris comes to him, and... and...

     Maybe he means it this time.

     _Maker, I'm so damn weak._

     Maybe this time Carver can believe.

     _If he leaves again, it will kill me._   He knows this.

#

     But.  Well.  He's dead anyway.

     Nice to have someone warm beside him, even for a little while, as he falls into the grave.

#

     He gets dressed again and walks downhill to the central fire the others have made.  It's late.  Most of the group is asleep, curled up against each other or on patches of grass; Carver, because he'd been out on a mission, is the only one who even brought a bedroll.  The rest of them have left Kirkwall with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

     Garrett is still awake and ostensibly on watch, though he's mostly just staring into the fire.  "We're all fucked, you know," he says, in greeting.

     Carver settles beside him on a log.  "There's other places you can go."

     "No, there aren't.  Anders planned this well."  He hugs himself, Garrett, as if he's cold.  The night air is warm.  But Garrett's eyes are empty, empty, and Carver knows it's hard to feel warm when there's a big hole where your soul used to be.  "The mages who escaped here will spread the word.  Other Circles will rebel, and other Templars will lose their sodding minds, and it'll be war.  Everywhere."

     Carver sighs, knowing he's right.  He offers the best option he can think of.  "Maybe... you can go back to Ferelden?  The king there's sane, even if he is an ex-Templar -- "

     "You can't go home again, little brother."  He looks up at Carver and musters a smile.  "Well.  Maybe _you_ can."

     Carver shrugs, uncomfortable.  He has reclaimed his love on the same day that Garrett has murdered his.  There's just no way that's going to sound good, even if they talk about it, which Carver decides maybe they won't.  But Garrett sighs.

     "'I'm fine', my arse," he says.  Carver grimaces as he remembers the letter.  "You little shit.  I almost came to Ansburg to hit you."

     "Yeah.  Sorry."

     "Are you fine now?"

     "I don't know."  It's true.  Only time will tell if Fenris will flee again, or if it'll become too much for Carver and _he'll_ run. 

     Until then, though... well.  Life's too short to spend it braced for pain.  He'll take what he can while he's got it, for all it's worth. 

     Then he looks at Garrett, and even though he knows better, asks anyway.  "You?"

     "Oh, I'm just perfect, little brother."  Garrett's smile is terrible, and familiar.  "Never better."

     They fall silent and it's not remotely companionable.  Garrett says then, staring into the fire, or maybe he's looking at Merrill who's curled up on the other side of it, "Go back to him.  You should be there when he wakes up.  Don't let him get any ideas."

     "Garrett..." 

     But Garrett shakes his head.  "Let me be alone awhile."

     So Carver gets up to leave.  He's not sure it's a good idea.  He knows how loud the silence can get.  But this isn't something he can fix, and anyway -- Garrett has never really needed him that way.  Garrett will fix himself, or not.

     "Carver."  Surprised, Carver turns back.  Garrett's still looking at the damned fire.  But he says, "Chase him down if he runs again.  Beat him senseless if he's stupid."

     Carver thinks that's a recipe for getting his heart crushed, literally.  But Garrett doesn't give brotherly advice often, so he nods.  And Garrett looks up at him.  The firelight is merciless, etching deep every line and shadow in his face; he looks twenty years older.  He looks older than their father ever got.

     "It's _important_ ," Garrett says.

     And there's nothing else Carver can say, but:  "Yes, Brother."

     Garrett turns back to the fire, and Carver goes back up the hill to where Fenris is just waking.

#

     It takes two weeks to get to Ansburg, without magic or horses or sufficient supplies.  The hardships of travel leave them little time to talk, or think, or do more than wearily rely on one another to get by.  They share the road with a few thousand refugees, and getting into the city takes a combination of rank-pulling on Carver's part and intimidation on Fenris'. 

     The  Keep is on a hill in the southern part of the city, and climbing that hill feels like the most exhausting thing Carver has ever done.  The city guards let them in and Carver leads Fenris straight to the mess hall, because they haven't eaten in days.  They stuff themselves while various Wardens and staff too-casually pass through to grab food from the communal sideboard, blatantly ogling Carver's Infamous Elf.  Velanna catches Carver's eye and gives him an approving if haughty nod.  He scowls back, so she'll know he's not planning to share.

     Afterward Carver shows Fenris where the baths are.  They scrub perfunctorily, though Fenris takes a bit longer about it and grimaces in distaste at the harsh, utilitarian soap that's there for common use. Carver shows him where the house robes are, though he only puts a towel on himself since half the Keep has seen him naked anyway, and he's yawning already as he leads Fenris down the hall to his rooms.  They get inside, Carver fumbles a lantern on, and half a breath later he's on the bed and Fenris is on him and there's all this elf in his mouth and he's not remotely sleepy anymore.

     They have a good warm bed, they have Carver's side table full of oils, and they have all the time in the world.  So Fenris holds him down and fucks him slow, biting his collarbones and relishing his whimpers while he begs Fenris to go just a little faster, just a little harder, to give him just a little more.  But Fenris is cruel, and Carver doesn't really want it to end -- ever -- so it feels like hours before Fenris finally gives him everything he wants and draws things to a shuddering, earthbreaking close.  They're so tired by then that there's no cleanup, no talking; they flop where they've finished amid rumpled sheets and leaves shed from Velanna's damn tree, and Carver regains consciousness sometime well into the next day.  He manages to wriggle out from under Fenris without waking him and finds that the staff have been in to deliver food and fresh clothing and a basin of water and towels; how thoughtful of them.  So he does a whore's cleanup of himself and turns over a boneless, barely-awake Fenris to do the same for him.  Fenris gets hard halfway through this, and he's so sodding gorgeous, and he's _there_ , in Carver's bed.  Carver means only to lick him once, just steal a little taste, but Fenris makes such _sounds_ even while half-awake.  So Carver settles in for breakfast, licking and sucking and swallowing this treat he's been denied for so long, and when Fenris growls and drags him up by his hair he's not really sorry.  They tangle up and there's an oil flask lying in the sheets but Fenris doesn't bother and just takes them both in hand, Carver's half delirious with it and it's just a _hand_ , why's it feel so _good_ , he's tired of trying to figure it out.  Even better is the feel of Fenris' solid weight on him, and the smell of his hair, and the taste of his mouth.  It's all steady and so langorous that Carver doesn't realize he's coming 'til it gets hard to see.  Fenris groans and then there's more wetness between them, slippery and sticky; he lets Carver suck his fingers when Carver begs for a taste.  This whets multiple appetites so they eat a meal like that, still tangled, still thrusting lazily against each other not for completion but just for the sheer wonder of being able to.   Fenris speaks to him in that voice, talking about Kirkwall but the voice make him _want_ , and Carver is shivering even as Fenris feeds him cheese and slab-bread and takes the grapes and nuts for himself.  Then Carver's hard again, pleading for more and using his mouth to try and map every inch of Fenris' skin, so Fenris shifts to straddle him and grabs the flask.  Then he rides Carver's cock while Carver tries not to lose his mind, tries not to lose control, tries not to cry out and fails, fails, fails.  The whole Keep probably hears him howl like a beast.  Fenris is glowing, it's so beautiful, he's so many things that Carver has dreamt of between nightmares, they fall into each other and it's over but the fact that they can do this again whenever they want, however much they want, for as long as they want, always, ever -- this is what makes Carver happiest of all.

     Fenris is lying on his chest.  Fenris is _here_ and the dream is real.  Carver's got his arms around him, fingers sunk into that soft white hair, and he's not letting go again. 

#

     They spend three days in his room, fucking and recovering and fucking again, and _talking_ \-- they haven't really talked since before That Night, he's missed the friendship as much as everything else, they have years' worth of stories to share and secrets to discover -- before Carver remembers that he should probably check in with Stroud.

     He brings Fenris, because Stroud will need to meet their new ally.  But when they enter the common room, everyone gets up and comes over and demands to be introduced.  By the time Stroud comes in it's a party, because one of the thieves has brought out a cask of something golden and sweet, and Levyn has shyly offered Fenris a glass from a dusty old bottle whose label is apparently really impressive -- and Fenris has _accepted_ it, to Carver's shock -- and Velanna has been persuaded to break out her flute and play something that isn't a dirge or a protest song.  And...

     And Fenris is smiling.  Here, amid the people Carver loves best.

     Stroud strolls over to the side of the room where Carver stands watching this.  He stops beside Carver and glances at his face, then after a moment nudges Carver with an elbow.  Carver can't look at him.  Can't talk, not if he wants to keep any semblance of dignity.  Stroud shakes his head.  "I suppose I will have to stop thinking of Fereldans as unromantic clods," he drawls, before going over to introduce himself to their guest.  Carver's too overwhelmed to take offense.

     After a while Fenris retreats into the shadows with him.  Nobody notices because they're all drunk, singing some song, and a few have already tottered off to grope each other in the corners.  "Your friends..." Fenris says, and then seems to be searching for some tactful way to continue.

     "They're a madhouse," Carver murmurs.  He's mostly pulled himself together. "We're all insane."

     "Then perhaps I will fit right in."

     "Don't say that.  You're the only thing here that makes sense."  He wants to say more, but they're not alone.  Fenris hears it anyway, and turns to him.

     "I am glad you had this," he says.  Carver understands what he means.  In Kirkwall Carver could have had comrades of a sort, basking in the reflected glow of the Champion's charisma.  But here -- _here_ Carver has found his own company, and he has earned their loyalty and respect all on his own.

     "They're a good bunch," he says, clearing his throat unnecessarily, and then he feels the boy again, all over shy.  "If you, um, maybe if you give them a chance -- "

     Fenris inclines his head slowly.  "They care for you.  I will do more than give them a chance."

     That's... really good.  Carver chews on his lip to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

     "Forgive me," Fenris says quietly.  He doesn't say what for.  Carver hears that anyway.

     He doesn't think Fenris is the type for public kissing.  Carver's not, either, not really.  But nobody's looking at them, so he decides to take a chance and at least nudge Fenris' hand with his own.  And Fenris takes it, fiercely tight, as if he means never to let go.

#

     It's not the sort of thing Carver would have chosen for himself, he thinks, much later.  None of it -- his sister gone, Kirkwall, the taint, Ansburg.  But if there's one thing being a Warden has taught him, it's that a person can either waste time railing against the fate he's given, or he can grab it and draw a sword to make it his and cut the balls off anyone who tries to fuck with it.

     So let the Calling come in twenty years or tomorrow; he'll laugh when the darkspawn finally take him down.  But until then, with Fenris at his side, Carver plans to enjoy _the Void_ out of today.

**Author's Note:**

> ::cranky:: OK, at this point my muse is just being a dick. I keep trying not to write fanfic, and she keeps *hitting* me with them.
> 
> Regardless, apologies for this one -- it's more sappy than "The Deeper Roads". If you're wondering, Levyn is indeed Jowan; per the game canon, that's what he changes his name to if you let him go after the Redcliffe affair in DA:O. The non-con warning is per my suspicion that there's a reason the Templars decided Jowan was too weak to undergo the Harrowing, especially given that he proved otherwise over the course of DA:O. Jowan seems the type to have been desperate enough to offer favors to the Templars to try and protect himself, little realizing that doing so might worsen their opinion of him. Yes, I un-fridged Velanna, and yes, I'm implying she loved Nathaniel and something went wrong. And yes, that's Faren Brosca, even though Tanukiham's fanon has an Amell mage as the Hero of Ferelden. Why? Ask my damn muse, I don't know.
> 
> Tanukiham, I really hope you don't mind that my creative dysfunction keeps expressing itself all over your fanon. -_- 
> 
> no I know they don't go to the Dead Trenches I just thought that made a good fic name given Carver's obsession with death shut up i'm not good with naming


End file.
